Chapter 7
For the way Duncan Everleigh gaped at her, Josephine might very well have sprung an extra head.
His was a peculiar blend of horror, shock, and confusion.
She made herself stop rambling.
A thoroughly befuddled-looking Alby coughed. “I’ll wait for word of our next meeting, sir.” Gathering up his large satchel, the window-maker started for the door.
As he drew the panel open and pushed it closed behind Alby, Mr. Everleigh didn’t so much as spare the old man a look.
Josephine shivered. The gooseflesh that popped up on her arms, however, had nothing to do with the cold left by the London rain.
His gaze, piercing, and yet, devoid of any emotion and somehow more terrifying for it, pinned her to her spot.
“Now, your turn,” he said silkily.
How was it possible for a tone to be both frostily menacing and smooth like warmed chocolate all at the same time? And yet, his honeyed baritone was just that, and also responsible for the oddest flutter low in her belly.
Unease. That’s all it is. It was her body’s reminder of a proper disquiet where Duncan Everleigh was concerned.
The barrister quirked a brow, and that brought her back to the whole purpose in seeking him out. “Yes, as I was saying before. My business pertains to…”
His brows dipped, more menacing than any other word or direct physical threat he could have leveled at her. “You misunderstood me, Miss Webb.”
Miss Webb? Why was he calling her…? And then that lie she’d fed him just yesterday whispered back. “I-I did?” she asked, thoroughly despising that slight stammer.
“It is your turn.” Mr. Everleigh drew the door open a fraction. “To leave.”
“Leave?” she blurted. She glanced about. Only, she was the only one there. “But… you sent away Mr. Alby so we might speak.”
“I was attempting to be rid of him,” he gritted out. “And now, I’d like to be done with you.” With that, he yanked the door open.
Wind howled through the office, stirring the papers on his desk and sending several sheets flying to the floor.
Cursing, Duncan Everleigh shoved the panel closed hard behind him.
For the first time since she’d stormed the stranger’s office this afternoon, the wisdom of confronting a stranger hit her.
Stop. He is a barrister. Hardly the manner of one to go about harming you.
Not when he decidedly knew the consequences that would face one who did.
Except, he looks nothing like any of the barristers you know from your brother’s offices. Nay, those men were all scrawny and bespectacled and pale from a lack of sunlight.
Refusing to give in to her growing unease, and unwilling to let him see it, she stalked throughout the room and rescued each fallen sheet. “You’d really benefit from a paperweight.”
“What?” He dropped to a knee beside her. “Do not touch those.”
“I hadn’t heard of them either,” she confessed, ignoring his order and righting his notes. “I came across one this year in an auction listing in The Times. Really quite a revolutionary idea. So very simple, and yet—”
“My papers, madam.”
She stared at his outstretched hand. His fingers were long, the tips stained with ink, the palm callused. It was so very different from the hands of a gentleman, and she found that she preferred these very real ones to the lily-white hands of the cowards about the ton.
Reluctantly, she ceded his documents back over to his care.
Gathering them, he sprang to his feet and returned them to his untidy desk.
She cleared her throat. “Yes, well, as I was saying—”
“You’ve said a lot of things, Miss Webb,” he said dryly.
Sarcasm, however rude it might be, was still safer than the fury he’d turned on her in both of their exchanges. Taking heart, she did a sweep of the office, looking. Looking.
Every last square space within Duncan Everleigh’s office was… covered. So much so that no person would ever dare be able to make out the respective furniture hiding underneath his piles. Josephine marched around the room. “There has to be a chair in here somewhere,” she said, her search continuing.
“There is. However, whether or not you can find it is neither here nor there, as you are—”
“There it is,” she said excitedly.
“Leaving.”
Setting her bag down, Josephine filled her arms with the leather folios stacked upon a rickety wooden chair.
“Put those down this instant,” he barked.
Josephine was already setting the pile on the floor alongside the spare desk. “Is this your partner’s workspace?”
“I don’t have a…” Creeeeak. Mr. Everleigh cursed. “What are you doing?”
“I think it should be fairly obvious.” She grunted, lugging the surprisingly sturdy seating over to his desk. With its four legs turned in and large brass casters, the heavy piece was of peculiar design. “I’m fetching myself a chair so that we might speak.” Josephine hauled it into position and then sat.
Wiping at her slightly damp brow, she stared expectantly up at Duncan Everleigh.
“Tell me, Miss Webb,” he said, continuing only when their eyes met. “Are you aware there’s an impreciseness to muff glass that lends it a greenish tint and often possesses air bubbles?”
She puzzled her brow. What was he on about? “A… greenish tint, you say?”
He nodded.
Josephine angled her head. “I’m… no.” It really was quite riveting information, if off-topic. “I did not know that.”
“Oh, yes,” he murmured, his honeyed baritone smooth and musical, and it did the strangest thing to the pattern of her heart’s beating. A rhythmic upset she’d never before known or experienced with Lord Grimslee.
Duncan drifted closer, and her pulse gave another funny leap. “There’s a greenish hue to muff glass, and the panels invariably display imperfections.” He stopped beside her. So close, her gaze was in line with the heavy muscles of his thighs.
Her mouth dried. Good God, no barrister had a right to legs such as his. They were as sizable as tree trunks, only grooved with sinew and brawn. Her cheeks burning hot, Josephine forced her gaze up. For one horrifying moment, she believed he’d caught her staring. Knew that she’d been admiring his perfectly masculine form.
His next words killed any such fears.
“Then there is, of course, crown glass.”
“Crown glass?” she repeated dumbly.
“I trust you’re unfamiliar with it?” He didn’t allow her a word edgewise, continuing straight on with his elucidation on glass. “The glass is blown into a bubble, pierced, and spun.”
Spinning was a rather good way to describe how she was feeling in this very moment. Because of his lesson. Because of him…
“The end product is vastly clearer, though still in possession of some rippling.”
At last, he stopped.
And by the way he hooded his gaze, those thick, dark lashes sweeping down to conceal his piercing eyes, something was expected of her here. Some response.
She felt him studying her every movement. Studying her. Unnerved, feeling at a disadvantage with his fine form towering over her, Josephine stood and, with a forced casualness she didn’t feel, edged behind the sloppy desk. “I… confess to some degree”—a good deal of it—“of confusion as to your… choice of discussion.”
“Oh, I’d hardly call it my choice,” he said, his features deadpan. “You see, Miss Webb,” he went on, “thanks to you, I now possess more details, more obscure bits of information, more anything than I’ve wanted or needed to know… about windows.”
Her mouth moved, and only one syllable emerged. “Oh.” He’d sought to unsettle her with his annoyance. Only, she found herself… enthralled by his masterful wit. Another man might have launched into a diatribe over the window she’d broken and the headache that had resulted. Or a polite gentleman would have said noth
ing on it and suffered that aggravation in silence. And yet, Duncan Everleigh should present a roundabout glassmaking lecture to hammer home his displeasure.
Josephine smiled.
He must be a marvel upon a courtroom floor. And despite her resolve to aid him only if Lathan Holman was, in fact, a wrongly accused man, a desire to assist him and watch him at work consumed her.
She found herself pitying Henry for what he was up against.
Duncan’s brow dipped menacingly. “Do you find humor in this, Miss Webb?”
Actually, she did. She’d not, however, be so foolish as to admit as much.
“I take it you are not happy about the education you received from Mr. Alby.”
He clapped slowly. “You’ve read the situation right, for once, Miss Webb.”
For once? The lout. “Given the length we’ve known one another, I hardly think you’ve a right to speak on the norms of my behavior, Duncan.”
“Dunnncan?” He strangled out those two syllables.
She shrugged. “Due to the speed with which our relationship has progressed, it only seems appropriate to use one another’s Christian names.”
He fell back on his heels, and she suppressed a triumphant smile. She’d managed the seemingly impossible—she’d unsettled the sharp-witted barrister. Taking advantage of his distraction, she pounced. “Furthermore, as I see it, Duncan, you should thank me.”
That brought his eyes flying wide. “And—and,” he sputtered, “why in God’s given name do you expect I should thank you?”
Once more, Josephine lifted her shoulders. “You’re a barrister.” She left those three words to dangle there, intentionally vague, knowing no barrister would be content without further questioning.
One, two, three, four, five…
“And?” he snapped when she proved unforthcoming.
She’d hand it to him. He’d restrained himself three more seconds than she’d expected he would.
“This is London, Duncan.”
“I know where we are.” He paused. “What in hell does my residing in London have to do with my grasp of the window-making process?”
Unlike his prior displays of frustration, there was a genuine befuddlement this time. She took mercy.
Some, anyway.
“It isn’t about where ‘we’ are, as much as it is about where you work. Thefts are commonplace. Thieves hardly enter through the front doors, or even the back doors, of residences. They use windows for their entry and their escape.” She again smiled. “As such, you’ve acquired information you’d not otherwise been in possession of that, one day, will provide undoubtedly crucial in some case or another you are trying. And please, just Josephine. No need to stand on formality.”
His lips moved, but no words were forthcoming.
There should have been a suitable degree of victory in having landed the upper hand. Only, that wordless state in which he now found himself, drew her gaze to his mouth, which was… somehow even more intriguing than his thighs. There was a firmness to that mouth. His lips were perfectly formed harsh lines that lent a rugged appeal to his sharpened features.
“Miss Webb, I don’t know whether you’re speaking with absolute sincerity, or whether you’re teasing me.”
Josephine leaned forward. “It’s the latter, Duncan,” she whispered, placing a slight emphasis on his name as a reminder that she’d evolved their forms of address into the familiar.
His features remained implacable. He was a man made of stone, wholly unyielding, and where the sensible response was disquiet, her intrigue for the coolly emotionless figure intensified.
“What do you want?” he asked, his no-nonsense tone indicating she’d reached the end of his patience.
Josephine got to the sole reason of her visit this day. “I’ve come to talk with you about your decision to represent Mr. Holman.”
The gentleman tipped his head at an angle that would have been endearing if it hadn’t been for the ice in his eyes. Josephine opened her mouth to continue, but the words stuck in her head and never made their way to her lips as she noted a detail that had previously escaped her—Duncan Everleigh was a rather striking man. With the harsh lines of his face and his features slightly too heavy, he’d never be considered handsome by Society’s standards. His aquiline nose was slightly bent. His jaw a bit too strong. Yet, there was a strength to those lines, however much they were carved of stone and as strong as his opinions.
He gave her a quizzical look.
Uncomprehendingly, she shook her head.
He mimicked her movements. “Mr. Holman?”
What? And then it all came rushing back. Lathan Holman. Duncan Everleigh’s decision to represent him. “Your client.”
“I know who Mr. Holman is.” He leaned closer. “And just what is it you’d like to discuss?” he asked in silken tones containing traces of honey and steel that together created a terrifying blend.
Every primal instinct within Josephine said that to engage him in discussions would be the same as playing with fire, with her own burning the inevitable result. And yet, she couldn’t simply leave. Not without having answers that would and could make sense to her and all those loyal to the Crown.
Fighting the little tremble that worked through her person, she edged her chin up. “The gentleman stands accused of treason.”
Mr. Everleigh crossed his arms at his chest. “And?”
“And you’d just defend a traitor?”
“I would,” he said, his answer instantaneous.
Josephine pounced. “Why?” Her very reasons for coming this day hinged upon his response. “For the funds? For fame and notoriety?”
“Because if everyone took the opinion that you do, Miss Webb, then the only ones who’d be left to speak for the guilty men and women are the individuals themselves.” He flashed her a faintly mocking grin.
Josephine bristled. “As it should be, no?” How dare Duncan Everleigh pass judgment on her? He was the one attempting to free a traitor.
“Are you familiar with Sarah Elton?”
Did he think to throw her off-balance by that unexpected query? If so, he was to be sorely disappointed. “I am.” She’d come across mention of the murderess when a solicitor had brought Henry a similar case to represent—which Henry had ultimately declined. “In 1678, she was charged with the murder of her husband,” she said.
Surprise filled Duncan Everleigh’s eyes, and Josephine felt a momentary surge of triumph. It had been as she’d expected, then. He’d not believed she would know anything about that old murder case. That thrill of victory was short-lived.
“Do you know the details of how she killed him, Miss Webb?”
Josephine hesitated. The legal books she’d pored through had been vague, mentioning nothing more than the murder and the ultimate guilty verdict handed down.
“Do you?” he pressed.
Josephine wet her lips. “I don’t necessarily see that it… matters? Dead is dea…” Her words trailed off as he lifted the lid of his Boulle desk set with meticulous care, so as to not jostle the crystal inkwells, and withdrew a pair of scissors.
“Her weapon… of choice,” he murmured, holding the shears aloft.
Josephine cringed.
Duncan was not finished. “She stabbed him and admitted to his murder at her own hands. By your accounts, and by Society’s, that was all that was required to sentence her to death. There was nothing more for the world to know.” Straightening, he circled the desk, moving behind her chair, and she shivered with awareness. “As you can imagine, the murder was gruesome. Upon taking that blow, an organ was pierced, and Mr. Elton choked upon his own blood.”
Her stomach turned at the image he painted.
“Quite a horrific death for anyone, isn’t it?”
He was setting her up. There could be no doubting that was his intention, and yet, she could not follow the path he was taking her down. She managed the expected nod, one that she could not stop herself from giving him.
/> Duncan continued those slow, precise steps. Deliberate ones. “Her actions that day and confession were, of course, sufficient enough to see her sentenced to death.” The moment he reached the side of the desk opposite from where she sat, Duncan stopped, highlighting the fact that, in this instant, Josephine was the adversary. He set the scissors in the middle of his desk, atop the highest stack, so that they rested in a damning throne of sorts. “And sentenced to death she was.”
There was more there.
And yet, he didn’t give her those details. He dangled his statement, rightly knowing she’d have questions.
“Why did she kill him?” Her voice emerged as a quiet whisper that she herself strained to hear.
A faintly mocking smile ghosted his hard lips. “Come, Miss Webb. What reasons would it matter that she killed him?” He set his hands on his hips. “Based on your opinion on guilt, isn’t it simply enough that she did?”
“Yes.” Her brow furrowed. “No.”
“Which is it?”
And she had more than a glimpse of what Duncan Everleigh would be like in a courtroom—a force. Not for the first time, she found herself pitying Henry for being on the opposing end of that argument. “It… it…” The answer should be easy. So why did she struggle?
“Her husband beat her,” he said bluntly. “Viciously. And he did so, often. The night of Mr. Elton’s murder, a quarrel erupted between the pair. That night, he pummeled her. Over and over and over and over again,” he said gravely, the somberness of his tones more convincing, more powerful than any of his previous taunting. “Her face was an artist’s palette of blues and purples and greens. Her lips were cracked and bloody. Her eyes were so swollen she couldn’t properly look at those questioning her in the aftermath of the murder.”
Josephine bit the inside of her cheek, as she was riddled with equal parts pain for what the woman had suffered and rage for the man responsible for those crimes.
“You see, Miss Webb?” he murmured in the tones used by her instructors at Mrs. Belden’s Finishing School when they’d been bringing her round to the heart of a lesson. “Sarah Elton was guilty. Almost none would dare say she was innocent. After all, women, by the very writings of the law, are viewed as objects of their husband. Nearly all would say she was guilty, and no other details about why she acted as she did that night bear any consideration.” His lips curled in a hard, cold smile. “After all, Miss Elton killed her husband, and well, that was all that truly mattered.” He paused and held her stare directly. “Isn’t it?”
The Minx Who Met Her Match Page 8